Clotheslines, Ferry Lines and Fine Dines
There’s nothing like a death-defying act to get your blood pumping in the morning. Hanging out the washing provided just that. With the clothesline stretching out across the road, three storeys up, in order to peg the clothes in place, firstly standing on a chair was required, followed by the act of leaning out over a metal bar, practically having to launch yourself, face-first at the out-of-reach line, while all the while trying hard to avoid dangling the fresh clean clothes in the dirt of the window box geraniums. Yikes. Just anchoring a solitary peg on the blooming line was worth a happy dance (in itself a little dangerous whilst standing on a chair). The welfare of the geraniums was in question so for the good of all, I removed the window box completely to get a better shot at the target. The line is on a pulley system, so after triumphantly pegging a piece of clothing, you pull the opposite rope to slide it along, ready for the next thing. Unfortunately, I forgot to cycle the line back to the beginning before starting, failing to see the giant metal clamp, joining the whole thing together. Without underestimating what an achievement it had been to get anything at all on the line, the rope was stopped in its tracks after hanging only a few measly pairs of undies. I still had half a basket of soggy washing to go. What a dilemma. Molly was called in to assess the situation and regrettably proclaimed, “Mum, you’re just going to have to take it all off and start again”. Damn it Janet. And our neighbours make it look so easy, effortlessly pegging and sliding every day of the week. While I love the romance of the crisp, clean washing wafting up there in the breeze, give me a HIlls Hoist any day.
Molly was heading off to uni classes at the Biennale again - today giving a presentation to the class - so, after a lovely Facetime with “the girls” and a chat with Rossco, I went off on a wander around the neighbourhood. Leaving the house, I couldn’t resist the temptation to glance over my shoulder (several times) and stare proudly at the washing up there fluttering on our line. What an achievement.
Around a few corners and down a few laneways from our place, is a little area filled with food and produce shops, buzzing with hungry shoppers. A green grocer has a permanent set-up; his sizeable boat brimming with freshly picked fruit and veggies; parked in the canal, so everyone can peruse his produce. A bit peckish, I was drawn to a little cake shop that looked like it hadn’t changed since the 1960s, its bright orange decor reminiscent of the Brady Bunch kitchen. The shop had big glass jars of lollies lining the shelves and an array of delectable looking biscuits in the window. Either he’d gotten out of bed on the wrong side that morning or he just had no tolerance for tourists, or perhaps even customers in general. He was the grumpiest sales assistant I’d ever met, He scowled when I walked in and interrupted his newspaper and espresso and my lack of Italian seemed to tip him over the edge. When I whipped out my Google Translate, he waved it away saying “no, no, no”. With a lot of animated sign language on my behalf, we managed to bridge the translation gap and he reluctantly got my order together. I thought he’d just throw them in a paper bag and say ‘good riddance’ (in Italian obviously) but he took great care in placing the little bickies neatly on a tray, wrapping them in beautifully delicate tissue paper, before wrapping the whole package in paper stamped with his shop name and tying it with a brown ribbon. They looked too cute not to show Molly, so I ended up carting them around with me all day.
We have found Venice to be very much a walking city; our daily step-counts through the roof. With no cars or buses on the island, it makes sense to walk most places. Today though, I was heading a bit further afield and so entered the wonderful world of the Vaporetto, a fancy Italian name for the ferry. I purchased myself a 24 hour ticket and loved the sign that said: “Near your ticket/card to validate here”. I neared my ticket seamlessly but alas, stepped aboard the wrong ferry. I asked the deckhand who was yet to close the gate, does this ferry go to “Salute?” to which she said “No,” and proceeded to shut and lock the gate. Oh well. Nothing like the scenic route.
Salute was over the other side of the canal and was such a gorgeous area, full of little art galleries and art shops. The bridges all had ornate wrought iron railings and it had so much character. I was headed to visit the Collection of Peggy Guggenheim, located in her former home, Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, on the Grand Canal. The building was built in the mid-1700s but never finished. The Guggenheims moved in in 1949, shipping in the art and generously opening their home and the collection to the public three afternoons a week. Entry to the Museum is through a beautiful garden, filled with sculptures. Peggy really was quite the collector and the gallery, still set-up much like a house, was stuffed full of famous paintings and sculptures from a list of notable artists; Picasso, Dali, Kandinski and Pollock amongst them. The current exhibition, ‘Surrealism and Magic’, really was surreal and I had a lovely time meandering around the masterpieces.
This afternoon, power nap under my belt, I joined Molly for another Vaporetto ride. We hadn’t realised it was peak hour in Venice and the Vaporetto was packed! Akin to the Tokyo subway, people were shoving themselves in to the already-at-capacity sardine tin masquerading as a ferry. It was insane. We exhaled when we got to Accademia and did what must be done in Venice…jumped in a gondola. It’s not really possible to handpick your gondolier so you just have to go with the next one in line. Ours was Manuel, a ten year veteran of the long oar and a man of very few words (to us that is. He did spend a good proportion of the voyage chatting loudly on his mobile phone). Alas, he didn’t sing for us but we did get a whistling rendition of the Gerry Rafferty classic, Baker St. Not exactly ‘Volare’ but hey, at least it was something. We were lucky enough to have the whole boat to ourselves and happily soaked up the dreamy atmosphere of the warm night as we swooshed up and down the tiny canals, giving the royal wave to the many onlookers hanging over bridges. It was so much fun!
Manuel expertly glided the gondola into its berth by the Grand Canal and we bid him arrivederci, making our way to the famous Rialto Bridge in time for sunset. Not surprisingly, we weren’t the only ones with that plan. The tiny streets were clogged with eager, camera-toting tourists just like us. I had no idea of the width of this famous bridge - it’s got its own shopping strip on top. It’s huge. People were squished along every square inch of the railing, staring sunward, as the great ball of fire sunk slowly down to the canal. A cheeky seagull stole someone’s icecream cone and paraded it up and down the bridge for a bit of comic relief. Last light was around 8pm and we shuffled off, along with the sweaty masses (it was still 28 degrees!), past designer shops, bars, boutique hotels and al fresco diners, to find ourselves some dinner.
After dinner we made a pilgrimage to the grandeur of St Mark’s Square, as Molly was yet to see it. The atmosphere was electric and it took on a whole new life at night. A classical battle of the bands was happening with two classical quartets on opposing sides of the square, playing loudly and competing for crowds. They were both fantastic! Little blue lights were flying up into the night sky and we weren’t sure what they were. Further investigation revealed they were little toys with blue lights and propellers, flung heavenwards by a robust rubber band. Molly just had to have one, forking out €4 to get her hands on one. There was a steep learning curve (including a thumb injury and a direct attack on her mother) before her blue light was flying high above the square, twinkling down on us. We met a little Spanish kid named Nicholas who was keen to coach Molly in the art of reaching peak toy-flinging performance. His coaching worked and Molly’s toy was flung to record levels, unfortunately though, making its landing atop a market umbrella inside a VERY posh restaurant. The waiter cautiously wiggled the umbrella, careful not to clock the dapper diners seated beneath it. After several awkward attempts, his tenacity paid off and Molly was thrilled to be reunited with her purchase.
All that running around had made us realise it was gelato-o’clock and as we went in search of a gelato shop, we were stopped in our tracks by another band with a saxophonist blasting out ‘Careless Whisper’. We were torn. Should we stay and watch, or head towards home for a gelato? I had the brilliant idea that perhaps we could kill two proverbial birds with one stone and have gelato at the restaurant, continuing to listen to the band. I should have twigged by the waiters’ very fancy bow-tied attire that this was not going to be Venice’s best value icecream. Sure enough, the waiter dropped the menus on the table and revealed the exorbitant prices but we’d come too far to pull out now. I can tell you, I savoured every single mouthful.
